My view of reviews.

As mentioned in my last post, I plan to comment on why I think music reviews are lame, for the most part. I still am might, but today I've gathered you all here to learn about what kinds of reviews can be trusted and which ones just can't. And it's really not the fault of the reviewer.

When I buy something online—something tangible—like from Amazon or Buy.com or Apple or REI—like a toaster, or a USB cable, or a pair of shorts—I tend to read the user reviews, and tend to trust them. I mean, if a dude reviews some gloves I'm thinking of buying for cold-weather bicycle commuting, and he notes that his fingers always get cold, you can be sure I would look for a different option.

But when it comes to something that is consumed and enjoyed by a matter of opinion, reviews become worthless. I freaking love the movie Ishtar. Seriously. It was a dud at the box office. And most reviews will pan the darn thing. But mine wouldn't. Mine would make it sound like the funniest damn movie to ever be set in a desert, near a desert, around a desert, or in spite of a desert. It is funny as hell, stupid as hell, and clever as hell. And outstanding as hell. But it is, and shall always be, the failed toaster oven of movies.

There's an album called The Best Little Secrets are Kept by a San Diego band called Louis XIV. It came out in 2005. I love it. There's guitars, and drums, and sexually-charged lyrics. It's rock and roll. There's nothing—not one thing—groundbreaking about it. But it sure as hell is a fun album to listen to when I'm in the mood for something to get my hands and arms air-drummin and air-guitarin. But those know-it-alls over at Pitchfork gave the damn thing a 1.5 out of 10. (Yeah, 10's the best.)

So here's my deal: one million people could hate a certain movie, but if I saw it and loved it, then what do I care what those one million people think? But when seven people review those gloves I was thinking about buying, and five of them say that their fingers go numb when they use said gloves, then I'd be stupid to buy them.

I'm still gonna dive into my diatribe on record reviews, but I've got some research I need to do, and I'm not sure when I'm gonna have it all compiled. Because of all that research. And because…

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Because there's baseball to be had. Sweet, succulent, juicy baseball. Tomorrow, the Rockie's first Spring Training game gets underway just around one. And it will be broadcast over the thingie-be-widget I call the internet. I'm especially psyched about that because we Durlams choose to get our video—the content which you undoubtedly refer to as TV—from that afore-mentioned cloudish substance. And my provider of baseball—MLB.tv—has found it in their typically frigid heart to not blackout any Spring Training games. Someday, when I'm full of mirth and gaiety, they won't blackout any regular season games, either. About which, faithful readers, you will learn more in the future. (That's just a thinly-veiled attempt to get you to keep checking back here at The Banter of One headquarters.)

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And there's also my wife. Who, today, had delivered, by a guy who comes to my house almost every day, a book inside which contained a personal message that brought a tear to my eye because of its earnestness. It was a stop-you-in-your-path kind of moment. One of those moments that reminds you how you got here and what you're still doing here—and why there could be no other here. And the book's gonna be awesome, too.

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So I got that going for me.